


eleven sorts of challenge, three of confusion

by orphan_account



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Feelings, I mean just maybe though, Looks dirtier than it actually is, M/M, Post Silverstone 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:53:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21913231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: If someone asks Lewis how he got Charles Leclerc in his bed, staring the ceiling distantly, mouth open in what could be an invitation, strangely coquettish and coy despite cum drying on his chest, the answer will be remarkably simple.He has no idea.
Relationships: Lewis Hamilton/Charles Leclerc
Kudos: 57





	eleven sorts of challenge, three of confusion

Silverstone was a blur – thumping heartbeats and the cheers from the crowd and the unfathomable weight of the flag over his shoulders. Lewis doesn’t think he will ever be over home wins, how much brighter everything is from up that special podium. It’s like he can just reach out and take the world for himself. It’s all his to conquer.

It also happens to be a blur of more complicated things.

He _remembers_ Charles. Charles who arrived with no secrecy, nodding and chatting to people, devious and garish in his bloody red overalls, smiling coyly like he isn’t their biggest challenge or whatever. He curled his congratulations with that stupid, addictive accent that only sounded this disorientating in his devilish mouth. Lewis knew, from the pleasantly dazed and overly delighted glint in his eyes, how his grin could easily slide into a smirk, that Charles was up for no good. He just knew the cutting mischief, so contrasting with his usual mild act and politeness, and he followed.

Which brings Lewis to this, whatever this happens to be. Fucking the next golden boy wasn’t a conundrum he thought he’d explore – morality questions and the whole competition thing. Fucking the next golden boy who rides dick like a seasoned porn actress and gives stellar blowjobs in semipublic places definitively configures as at least risky. Especially because Charles, PR-trained kid that he is, would be perfectly able to twist this into a scandal staring himself, five-times world champion and-

“Can I use your shower?”

If someone asks Lewis how he got _Charles fucking Leclerc_ in his bed, staring the ceiling with no particular interest, mouth open in what could be an invitation, strangely coquettish and coy despite having cum drying on his chest, the answer will be remarkably simple.

He has no idea.

“Sure, man.” He hopes for nonchalance, casual cockiness after it’s done, but instead Lewis finds himself wincing at how hoarse his voices sounds.

Charles throws him a quizzical glance, unreadable in his usual aloofness despite his lips curling in an equally disorientating smile. Every little mark Lewis left in his bod is criminal, an act of vandalism – red blossoming across his neck and chest, pearly white cum dotting his stomach, purple finger impressions on his shoulders. He’s a baroque statue, raising languidly from the bed, disturbing the tentative lack of time they created with brutal notions such as reality. Lewis is loath to admit he could stay here forever.

They’ve been reaching out without ever touching since Bahrain, that sun-scorched place in the middle of nowhere, defeat ringing in the air as Charles shrugged and _yeah, disappointing Sunday, but it’s just the second race_. Ever PR-trained and polite, a creature modeled into someone’s sick ideals of perfection. Lewis had dreamed of dismantling the unfaltering façade, of soiling Ferrari’s little prince, of making sure the world knew he was nothing but a needy and chaotic and sly boy. Selfish and fire-fueled.

Lewis watches him pad into the bathroom in calculated silence, fingers burning to reach out and keep him there. Keep him close. He finds himself wanting to preserve the reckless abandon and the reckless joy glimmering in Charles’ face at the podium, which is another unexpected, even more dangerous conundrum. Desire he can do. Desire is safe and easy to dismantle and sated by simple things such as flesh. Anything else might be suicide. And Charles has his edges, hidden under blasé charm and bizarre obstinacy – all of them red, branded with the prancing horse, fueled by hunger.

He closes his eyes. He isn’t doing that.

(Lewis _absolutely_ is.)

**Author's Note:**

> i have no idea what this is but i hope you liked it???


End file.
